


Here Comes The  Flood

by suchanadorer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes The  Flood

**Author's Note:**

> _Lord, here comes the flood  
>  We will say goodbye to flesh and blood  
> If again the seas are silent  
> In any still alive  
> It’ll be those who gave their island to survive  
> Drink up, dreamers, you’re running dry._
> 
>  _When the flood calls  
>  You have no home, you have no walls  
> In the thunder crash  
> You’re a thousand minds, within a flash  
> Don’t be afraid to cry at what you see  
> The actors gone, there’s only you and me  
> And if we break before the dawn,  
> They’ll use up what we used to be._

A hush falls over the church as Sherlock unfolds himself from the pew and ascends the steps to the podium. He turns to face them and his pale eyes dart from face to face, seeking contact with the few people that he knows. He was aware that John was well-liked, but a flame of jealousy curls up in his stomach anyway. He shouldn’t have to share this day with any of them. He avoids looking at the solitary figure silhouetted in the doorway at the back of the church.

Sherlock’s lips are a thin, white line, and the light from the podium’s lamp gives him a sickly, jaundiced appearance, throwing even deeper shadows around his eyes. His jaw twitches and his long fingers curl around the sides of the podium. He looks down, his gaze lingering on the coffin, then focuses on a point high up in the back of the church. His Adam’s apple bobs above the knot of his scarf as he prepares to speak, and there is a nearly imperceptible tightening of his brow.

“I loved him.” It is all the detective manages, his voice cracking, then failing him completely. Sherlock’s tall, lean frame looks suddenly frail as his shoulders hunch, his head hanging between them as sobs wrack his body. His knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the podium, leaning back away from it as he folds in on himself, one hand covering his mouth, eyes wide as if he is surprised by the power of his own emotions.

A murmur ripples through the mourners but it is Lestrade who climbs the stairs, laying an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and leading him down the steps and up the aisle towards the back of the church. Sherlock’s eyes search blindly in front of him as he leans against Lestrade, who in his turn casts dark, warning glances at the audience. One long, thin arm is wrapped protectively around his own body; the other across his chest as he grabs at Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder.

At the back of the church Mycroft sweeps an arm around his brother’s shaking body, nodding a thank-you to Lestrade as he opens his umbrella against the rain and bundles him into the waiting car.


End file.
